


Collision

by Basingstoke



Series: Sestina [5]
Category: Homicide: Life on the Street, due South
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-28
Updated: 2002-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>What a long, long road it's been. Thanks to <i>so</i> many people. Jacquez for reading the nine thousand drafts of this beast and being such a whip-cracking beta. Legion for helping me with the medical details, months and months ago. Te and LaT and others I'm sure for reading and giving helpful advice along the way.</p><p>Thanks to my readers for being so patient.  :)  I hope this is worth the wait.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Collision

**Author's Note:**

> What a long, long road it's been. Thanks to _so_ many people. Jacquez for reading the nine thousand drafts of this beast and being such a whip-cracking beta. Legion for helping me with the medical details, months and months ago. Te and LaT and others I'm sure for reading and giving helpful advice along the way.
> 
> Thanks to my readers for being so patient. :) I hope this is worth the wait.

"Well, I don't _want_ the bowling alley, but they're _giving_ me the bowling alley, and if I don't take it then my grandkids won't even hear the last of it," Ray said. "And the creepy things is that Uncle Vinnie sounds just like my old man. 'A man can't live off his women; he's got to have his own affairs.' Of course, Pop was talking about gambling."

"So this conflict is in part due to the traditional values of your family coming into opposition with the more modern ideas embedded in your relationship with Stella?" Fraser said.

"Uh, sure, Fraser. Now Ma! Always asking why Stella didn't change her name. She says it's not right for her to be married to me and still wearing Kowalski's name. I try telling her she's not, but she doesn't listen." Ray tossed his sandwich wrapper into the nearest garbage can.

Fraser rubbed his forehead. "I will admit to being rather buffaloed myself when I learned that Stella's maiden name was also Kowalski."

"Stella's been great, though. She doesn't even mind holding off her career while Ma is sick." Ray closed his eyes. "Doesn't look like it'll be long now."

"I'm sorry, Ray." Fraser touched Ray's shoulder.

Ray shrugged. "Has to happen some time." He hunched his shoulders, and walked along.

Fraser looked down a nearby alley and frowned. "If you'll excuse me?" He marched down the alley. Ray sighed and watched, puzzled until he saw the kid at the end of the alley, tagging a dumpster.

"Fraser! You can't convert the whole world on your lunch hour!" Ray shouted. Fraser, of course, didn't listen. He bent over the kid--probably trying out the story of the wolf who pissed on his own tail or something.

The kid stood up and puffed himself up, staring at Fraser. Fraser held out a hand and Ray waited for the kid to fold. They all folded, right? Ray just wondered what the sob story would be this time.

The kid raised up his hand and spray-painted Fraser in the face.

Ray didn't register what had happened until the kid bolted and Fraser crumpled, bouncing off the dumpster and smearing the paint, falling to his knees in the dirty alley with his hands to his eyes. Then Ray jumped: "Oh my God--oh my GOD"--pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, wishing he still carried a gun, but he wasn't a field officer now, he was behind a desk.

And he dialed 911 as he reached Fraser, and he shouted "Officer down! OFFICER DOWN!"

* * *

Vecchio was standing in front of the hospital when Ray skidded to a halt.

Ray jumped out of the car and ran for the entrance. Vecchio grabbed his arm. "It's not as bad as it seems," he said. "Acrylic paint, not oil."

"It's fucking spray paint, Vecchio! In his fucking eyes!" Ray stood in the middle of the waiting room with both his hands clenched in his hair. "Which way?"

"Room 210. With the uniform in front." Vecchio pointed and Ray ran for the stairs. One flight, and there was the uniform. Ray flashed his badge and went inside.

Fraser was asleep. Ray stopped dead and watched him breathe, watched his chest rise and fall.

"He's sedated," Vecchio said. "He was a little worked up when they were cleaning him off."

"Jesus." Ray closed his eyes, wishing he'd been there. He opened his eyes, took Fraser's limp hand and squeezed hard.

Vecchio coughed. "I'm gonna go visit Ma," he said. "She's two floors up."

"Thanks for calling me, Vecchio," Ray said, sitting down beside Fraser.

"Sure thing, Kowalski."

* * *

Ray sat beside his mother's bed, watching her sleep.

Any day, the doctors said, just like they'd been saying for the past three months. Ray knew what was happening: she was waiting for Frannie's baby. And now Frannie was ready to pop; it was "any day" for her too.

Ray didn't want to think about what would happen when Frannie's baby was born. He made himself think about who the father might be instead.

"Ray?"

Ray turned to see Stella in the doorway. "Hey, honey." He held out his arm.

Stella stood beside him and stroked his hair. Ray slipped his arm around her waist. "How is she?" Stella asked.

"Don't know. I couldn't find a nurse." He rested his head against Stella's hip. "I hate this," he said quietly.

"Oh, Ray, I know. I went through this too."

Stella's parents were both dead--her father quickly, in his sleep, but her mother slowly. She knew _exactly_ how it was for him.

"I can't leave her," Ray said. "Maybe you should go on ahead to Florida."

"I'm not leaving _you_, Ray." Stella knelt down and kissed him. "We'll be all right. They'll wait."

* * *

Bayliss shut his car door and hit the speed-dial for Kowalski's cell phone. Kowalski answered on the third ring.

"Yeah?"

"It's Bayliss. Is Fraser okay?" He juggled his keys, finally locating the key to the outside door of his apartment building.

Kowalski sighed. "Kind of. He's fucked up right now, but they say it's not permanent."

"Spray paint to the face, right?" He opened his mailbox--junk, bill, junk, "The Advocate," junk, junk, letter from Munch. Hm, that was probably about the bar...

"Yeah. But water-based, not oil."

"I guess that's something." Bayliss hit the "up" button on the elevator. "Did they catch the guy who did it?"

"No. Vecchio says it was some kid, some little graffiti punk. I've got my snitches working already."

"Okay." It didn't sound like a solvable case, but he wasn't about to say that to Kowalski. "I'm at home. Are you coming to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Late, probably."

"Okay. See you then." Bayliss hung up. The elevator arrived.

Spot yowled as soon as he opened the front door. "What are you complaining about?" Bayliss asked. "You have food. You don't have to work. Shut up."

"Mrar!" Spot ran over and head-butted his calves, coating his pants in hair.

Bayliss tossed the mail onto the coffee table. "Do you think it's unwise of me to subscribe to 'The Advocate'?" he asked Spot. Spot looked at him. "I work with detectives, right? They could find out, and then it would be Baltimore all over again."

Spot followed Bayliss into the kitchen. Bayliss opened the fridge and Spot climbed into the bottom shelf; he grabbed a beer and the cat and headed back into the living room to collapse onto the sofa. "Granted, I'm not dating a uniform. That--was a dumb move. I realize that now. I was careless. I didn't think it could get worse than it was."

He pressed the cold glass to his forehead, trying to chase away the sticky July heat. "I don't want to lose myself again, you know, Spot? I did it once and it took...a lot...to get back," he told the cat. Spot squirmed out of his arms and hightailed into the bedroom.

"Fine," he muttered, and turned on the TV. He closed his eyes, resting them for just a second.

Bayliss opened his eyes to find himself in the old squad room. Blue--why had they painted it blue? Blue wasn't a good color. It was the color of cold cases and dead bodies.

"What are you doing? Why are you just standing around? Don't you have a job?" Giardello asked, his arms outstretched. Bayliss looked around, but the lieutenant was the only one in the room.

"I don't know," Bayliss said. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I'll tell you what you're _not_ doing. You're not solving those cases." Giardello pointed to the case board. "Look. Red, red, red. Pick one and solve it. Make it black."

"I can't," Bayliss said.

Giardello frowned and pointed. "You can. Look; my name is black, you solved my murder. That pleases me."

Bayliss pointed. "Adena Watson. Red. And do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm not a cop. I'm a criminal," he said, and the words were freeing. It seemed so simple and so obvious then. He was a bad, worthless cop because he wasn't a cop at all--he was, in his soul, standing on the other side of the line. "I'll prove it."

He erased "Ryland" with the side of his hand and rewrote it in black. Red, unsolved. Black, solved. "I killed him, Gee. I did it."

"And you think that excuses you from being a cop?" Giardello folded his arms, his face resembling a thundercloud. "Just do your job. Do your damn job!"

"Gee--"

"DO YOUR JOB!"

Bayliss opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, Giardello's words still echoing in his ears and the beer bottle listing dangerously in his hand.

"Jesus." Bayliss sat the bottle on the coffee table and covered his face with his hands, just for a moment. Just for--

The sob startled him. He jerked his hands away from his face. He swallowed, holding it down. Keeping it all down. Not thinking about it any more.

* * *

Fraser stirred. Ray jerked his head up from the back of the folding chair.

"...Ray?"

"Right here, Benton buddy." Ray picked up Fraser's hand.

Fraser squeezed back. "...I feel...what happened to my eyes?"

"You don't remember?"

"I...oh. Yes, I remember. Spray paint?"

"Yeah."

"I thought that was a dream..." Fraser turned slowly and pulled Ray's hand to his mouth. He kissed it. "Good morning. I trust it is morning?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. Four-thirty."

"Oh, dear."

"I didn't sleep," Ray said.

"That's not healthy, Ray."

"You know what? Screw healthy." Ray pried himself out of the chair, climbed into the bed with Fraser, and dropped kisses all over his face.

All the parts that weren't covered by the bandage over his eyes, that is.

* * *

Bayliss' tie was tied to a tree and the knot was stuck tight no matter what he did. The silk refused to yield to his scrabbling nails. The noose held him fast.

He cowered, waiting for the hunter.

He knew the hunter was there--the noose called the hunter. The hunter smelled trapped game. He could see it, its shadow, lurking in the trees.

The shadow crept forward, gliding on toe-steps, divided by tree-shadows, so that it was everywhere and nowhere. Bayliss twisted and turned, watching the shadow-hunters come from everywhere, touching and not-touching him--

Bayliss looked up and saw the hunter standing over him. The hunter unsheathed his knife from the base of his spine and reached for Bayliss' throat, and Bayliss opened his mouth but couldn't be heard over the hunter's SCREAM--

Bayliss was awakened by the shrill of his cell phone by his bed. He grabbed it and rolled over onto his back as he answered. "Uh?"

Welsh. "Why aren't you at work, Detective?"

Bayliss squinted at the alarm clock. 8:45...what a wonderful start to the day. "Because I forgot to turn on my alarm clock, sir."

"Get your butt in here. I need your help with Kowalski."

Kowalski. Oh, shit. He was sure to go ballistic over Fraser. "Bouncing off the walls yet?"

"Through the walls. Get _over_ here. There's only so much Francesca can do." Welsh hung up.

Bayliss turned off the cell phone and sat up slowly, rubbing his throat, trying to remember what his dream had been.

* * *

"Spray paint. Orange spray paint," Kowalski said. He listened for a moment and then banged his fist on the desk. "I do not care how many kids do that! This. Is. Personal! Get the word out!"

Bayliss leaned against Francesca's desk sipping at a cup of coffee. Francesca was worrying a Twizzler between her teeth. They both were watching Kowalski.

"You think he's actually gonna get anywhere?" Francesca asked Bayliss behind her hand.

"Not a chance," Bayliss muttered. "But you couldn't pay me to say that where he could hear."

Kowalski hung up and dialed another number. He drummed his fingers on the desk; apparently the person on the other end wasn't answering.

Huey and Dewey wandered in from outside. "Has Ray blown yet?" Dewey asked.

"Any minute now," Francesca said. They all watched Kowalski from a safe distance.

Huey shook his head. "Hurting the Mountie. Not wise. I almost feel sorry for the kid if Ray catches him."

Kowalski stood up and dialed a different number, pacing the few feet between his desk and Bayliss'. He was chomping on his gum like he had a grudge against it.

"But I don't blame him. The Mountie, he's Canadian but he's one of us," Huey said.

"Huh." Dewey poked Huey. "Remember how Kowalski was about Jake Botrelle? Maybe this is that coming back around again."

Francesca looked at Dewey. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Karma," Bayliss said.

"Yeah, karma!" Dewey agreed.

Huey whapped Dewey in the back of the head. "Kowalski was _right_ about Botrelle. He saved an _innocent woman_ from being executed. Were you not paying attention that day?"

"Ow!" Dewey rubbed his head. "Look, I'm just saying."

"DAMMIT!" Kowalski suddenly shouted. He slammed the phone down on his desk, whirled and punched the brick wall. Bayliss dropped his coffee in the trash and rushed over. That didn't sound good.

"Ray. Ray! Are you okay?" Bayliss touched Kowalski's shoulder.

"Shit," Kowalski hissed under his breath. He had his hand pressed to his side with his elbow. "No, I am not okay. But my hand? My hand is fine."

Kowalski sat down at his desk. Bayliss tugged at his arm and Kowalski unfolded. His knuckles were scraped bloody, but his fingers didn't look broken.

"You should get an X-ray," Bayliss said.

Kowalski gave him a pained look. "I've broken fingers before, Bayliss. This doesn't feel like that."

"Okay. I'm just worried." Bayliss settled into his own chair, making go-away gestures at the peanut gallery around Francesca's desk.

"Shit." Kowalski pressed his hands to his face and leaned back. "Someone caps my--" Bayliss could hear the word "boyfriend" on Kowalski's lips, but Kowalski backed up and started over again. "Someone attacks my freaking partner and all I can do is make phone calls. And all the phone calls get me is a big fat nothing."

"Prints?" They'd retrieved the can, Bayliss heard.

"Clear as day, but prints get you squat if you don't have a suspect. And even if we did have a suspect, Vecchio said it really was a kid. Eleven. Twelve tops." Kowalski rubbed his face and dropped his hands into his lap. "Nobody saw nothing. Nobody heard nothing. I got nothing, Bayliss. What do you do with nothing?"

The ghost of Adena Watson.... "You work until it turns into something. It's too early to give up."

"Yeah." Kowalski closed his eyes for a moment, looking tired and bruised.

"Kowalski!" The desk sergeant stomped through the doors. "Got your robbery guy in Interview Two."

"I can take the interrogation," Bayliss said.

"No. I'll do it. You help." Kowalski pressed both hands on his desk and stood up slowly, his head down. Bayliss could see his pulse rabbiting through the veins of his throat.

"Okay," Kowalski said, quieter than Bayliss expected. "Let's do this." He took off. Bayliss grabbed his glasses and some papers from his desk and followed.

Kowalski burst into the interrogation room and seized the suspect, throwing him up against the wall. "Diamonds! Where! Tell me now, because I am _not_ in the mood to be jerked around!"

"Hey! you can't treat me like this!" the suspect yelped.

"I can't treat you like this?" Kowalski let go, letting the suspect drop to the floor. "Okay! I am no longer treating you like this."

"I want a phone call," the suspect grumbled from the floor.

Kowalski turned toward Bayliss. His eyes were wild. "What is it with these guys and phone calls? I think they watch too much TV." He turned back around. "What are you going to say, 'swallow the diamonds'? 'Take off to Tahiti'?"

The suspect sat up straight and glared right back at Kowalski. "'Hi, Mom. I'll be late for supper.'"

"Awww, that's sweet. That's almost as sweet as that clerk you beat up in the robbery!" Kowalski crouched down, leaning in close. "You want a reduced sentence, you gotta cooperate, and cooperation starts now, pal."

"Funny, I wasn't feeling all that friendly today."

"Do not make me punch you in the face!" Kowalski drew his arm back. Bayliss grabbed his hand.

"Easy, Kowalski! Ease up!"

Kowalski looked up at him, his chest heaving. His fist unclenched in Bayliss' grasp.

"Let me take this one," Bayliss said.

"Fine," Kowalski said, and he let Bayliss pull him to his feet. He looked exhausted, as if he had pulled a double shift, and it was only 1 PM. He pulled his hand away and left the room without another word.

"Is he some kind of nut?" the suspect said.

Bayliss offered his hand. "No. He's a cop with a lot on his mind." He pulled the suspect to his feet and sat him down at the table. Bayliss organized his paperwork and settled down across from him.

"You're Webber? Noah Webber?" Bayliss examined Kowalski's report. Apparently Webber had been spotted in the mall security camera, and had subsequently paid his rent in cash. Those two facts were fairly damning all by themselves, but a little interrogation never hurt a case.

"Yeah." Webber looked off-balance and relieved to have Kowalski out of the room. Bayliss smiled reassuringly.

This wasn't going to take any time at all.

* * *

Bayliss left the interrogation room after the uniforms took Webber down to the holding cell. Kowalski grabbed Bayliss by the lapel and tugged him into the supply closet. No explanation.

Bayliss groped around for the light chain. "Something on your mind, or do you just like closets?" he asked.

Kowalski shrugged. "Vecchio used to talk to Fraser in here. I'm just keeping up the tradition."

"Okay." Bayliss didn't push. Kowalski was within punching distance.

But Kowalski was looking at the stacks of paper, not at Bayliss at all. The lines in his face stood out like the course of a river. "You ever been married, Bayliss?"

"God, no. Not even close." Which was kind of...sad. He'd seen the kind of pain that failed marriages brought, though, and he knew himself well enough to know that he wasn't likely to do better than Felton or Munch or, well, Kowalski himself, though Kowalski's relationship with Fraser seemed to be going well.

Unless of course it wasn't.

If Kowalski were single...he was attractive in a hard-edged way, relatively sane, more than likely dynamite in the sack, and--God, listen to himself. Pathetic.

"Something on your mind?" Bayliss asked again.

Kowalski jerked his head and looked him in the eye. "Do you think it's worth it? All the worry and, you know, the stress and the pain and the things you gotta move around in your life? You think it's worth it all?"

It. Love. "Yes," Bayliss said. "Absolutely."

"Yeah." Kowalski closed his eyes and his face relaxed. He even smiled a little. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay?" Bayliss reached for the door, wondering if Kowalski wanted anything more of him.

"Okay." Kowalski opened his eyes.

"I'm heading home," Bayliss said, and punched Kowalski lightly on the shoulder.

* * *

Bayliss hung up his dry cleaning in the overly-neat closet.

Suits in the middle of the closet. Shirts on one end. Trousers and light jackets on the other end. And at the very end of the row, his leather biker jacket.

He stood for a moment, looking at the jacket. He'd only worn it once...

His heart surged up and he grabbed the jacket off the hanger. It was way too good a jacket not to wear, right? So he should wear it.

And this was too nice a night to waste, so he should go out. And he felt optimistic today. And after being around Kowalski, watching him so crazy in love, he needed company.

"I'm going to go to a bar," Bayliss told Spot.

* * *

Maria dished up polenta. "I'm just saying, Francesca, you're going to pop any day now. What if you pass out? What if you're unconscious? How are we going to know how to fill in the birth certificate?"

Frannie rolled her eyes. "A baby an hour old doesn't care what its name is. It's too busy wondering how it suddenly got so bright out."

"We're just saying that it's a little late in the day to be playing games!" Ray said.

Frannie glared at him over the butter dish. "I am _not_ playing a game. I am keeping my own business to my own self, _Ray._"

"This is family business."

Frannie exhaled noisily and turned to Stella. "Explain things to your Neanderthal husband. Things like a woman's right to vote and own her own property and have her own kids?"

"Oh--well, I agree with you, Francesca, you shouldn't be forced to tell anything that you don't want to. But I have to say, the child support proceedings will go much more smoothly with the father's name on the birth certificate."

Frannie shook her head. "I don't want child support. He's trying to come back to Chicago. If he can't make it, I don't want anything else."

"And what your family wants means nothing, is that right, Francesca?" Ray snapped.

"Yeah, Ray, that's right," she snapped back.

Ray hit the table with his palm. "And what about Ma? You don't think she'd maybe like to know the name of the man who sinned with her daughter so that she can pray for his soul before she dies?"

Francesca sat back and stared at him. She slammed her napkin down onto the table and stood up ponderously.

She left the room without a word.

"Nice one, Ray," Maria said. She shoved polenta onto his plate.

* * *

Paperwork. The one constant in his life.

Ray cracked his neck and felt a little better. He hurt, he was tensed up all over. Maybe he could get Fraser to--

Or maybe not. Ray hunched over the papers again.

He hadn't gotten a damn thing. Nobody but Vecchio had seen the kid. Vecchio had been so freaked over Fraser that he didn't see where the kid went. The prints didn't match anyone. Nobody in the area knew anything. Nobody at the area schools knew anything. His snitches all thought he was nuts.

Nothing to bring home to Fraser. No leads, no suspect to argue over. Nothing. It was like forgetting Stella's birthday, only he couldn't go buy flowers.

Maybe a plant. A fern or something. A little tiny pine tree in a pot--no. Fraser wouldn't like that.

Ray suddenly realized that he hadn't written a word in fifteen minutes. Great. Even his procrastination sucked.

His cell phone rang. He snatched it up. "Yeah?"

"Ray? It's late." Fraser.

Ray closed his eyes. "I'll be home soon," he said. He'd be home with empty hands, was how he'd be home. He _sucked._

* * *

Frannie sat in the rocking chair in her room, both hands on her belly. She didn't look at Ray.

"Frannie--"

"I don't want to hear it, Ray."

"I'm sorry."

She frowned and looked at him. "Did you just apologize?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. I guess Stella has taught you some manners."

"More like Benny, I think." He crossed the room and stood beside her, looking out the window at the dark yard. "I worry," he said.

"I know. I've been trying to make you stop for nine months."

* * *

Bayliss was drunk. Good thing he'd taken a cab.

This was the first time he'd actually had the nerve to set foot in a gay bar, and he was a little on edge. A lot on edge. But the jacket helped.

Bayliss finished off his beer and was about to signal the waiter for another when a man stepped between him and the bar. "Same again?" the man said.

Bayliss looked him over. He had a soft face and an easy smile; he was shorter than Bayliss and stockier, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and jeans. He didn't have the shifty look that meant trouble. "Sure."

The man walked over to the bar, ordered, and returned with two unopened bottles. "I'm Michael," he said, and held out a hand.

"Tim," Bayliss said, and shook it.

Michael sat down in the booth beside him, not across from him. "I'd ask if you come here often, but that would be such a cliche I'm ashamed to."

Bayliss took one of the bottles and opened it. Michael took the other. "This is my first time here," Bayliss said.

"New in town?"

"Busy." Bayliss held the beer up and stared at the label. "And--sort of new. But mostly busy."

"New to the city? New to the scene?"

Bayliss smiled a little. "New in general."

"Gotcha." Michael held out his bottle and Bayliss clinked his against it. "To newness," Michael said, and they both drank.

"I guess this is how you meet people?" Bayliss said. "You just sort of walk up?"

"I've found that it's easier than asking women out ever was. I mean, you can just come right out and ask 'do you want to sleep with me tonight?' and get a real answer."

Bayliss laughed.

"So." Michael elbowed Bayliss lightly. "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

And.

Well.

He couldn't help feeling like he should say "no" and run like the wind, but--tonight he was wearing a black leather jacket. He was wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a gun and--

Fuck it.

"Yes."

Michael grinned.

* * *

Ray shrugged out of his coat as he unlocked the front door, leaving it dangling off one arm as he slumped through the door.

"Ray!" Fraser, sounding bright and cheerful as ever. Ray knew he had bad days occasionally. Ray had _seen_ him have bad days. Just once, he would like their bad days to coincide.

"How was your day?" Fraser walked toward him, blindfolded and grinning. Plaid shirt, hiking boots, jeans--he looked fantastic if you ignore the damaged eyes.

Shit.

Ray dropped the coat. "Sucked."

"That's unfortunate, Ray." Fraser closed in without missing a beat, crowding him up against the wall for a kiss. Ray's head smacked into the plaster. "I missed you," Fraser said.

Ray planted his hand in Fraser's chest and pushed him away. "Not--right now."

Fraser frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything is wrong!" Ray shouted. "I shoulda found him by now! He oughtta be in jail! You should be better, dammit!"

Fraser stood back a step. "Finding the boy who assaulted me won't heal my eyes, Ray."

"I know that!" He looked at the couch; he couldn't look at that clean white blindfold any more.

Fraser cupped his hand around the back of Ray's neck. "I don't want you to look for him, Ray. It was my fault. I was careless."

Ray grabbed Fraser's shirt, staring at the checks. "That. Is. Bullshit. It is never your fault for being attacked by some creep! Not ever!"

"I should have known better!" Fraser put his hand over Ray's. "I've given this a great deal of thought. Let it go."

"I can't!" Ray closed his eyes and broke free of Fraser. He made for the bedroom. He had to get himself together. For Fraser. He had to.

* * *

Spot watched, perched on the back of the couch, as Michael kissed Bayliss' neck. He was so hard he was lightheaded, as if his dick was draining all the blood out of the rest of his body.

He was still wearing the biker jacket. It was still working its magic.

Michael slid to his knees in front of Bayliss. Spot fled, bushy-tailed.

* * *

Fraser stirred the soup, careful not to splash himself. He could hear Ray moving around the living room restlessly.

"Would you slice some bread?" Fraser called to Ray. "I bought a loaf at Maria's for dinner."

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, okay." Ray's sock feet were soft but audible against the floor as he walked into the kitchen. Fraser could hear him bend to scratch Dief behind the ear, and hear Dief's answering grunt. Slide of metal over wood meant that Ray was removing a knife from the block; the crackle of the paper bag; then the laborious sound of a knife sawing through crusty bread.

When the cutting was over Ray carried the bread to the table, and then Fraser couldn't place him any more. Fraser turned the stove off and carried the soup to the table.

Ray's hand on his spine. Ray's lips on his neck. "I love you," he whispered.

Fraser opened his arms blindly and Ray stepped into them. Ray's shoulders shook with the effort of his breath. Tears soaked through Fraser's collar, and he pulled Ray closer.

Then Ray was shifting, turning his face up, kissing Fraser with salty lips. Sudden erection pressing against Ray's trousers into Fraser's hip. Fraser backed up, finding a wall to lean against. He quickly unbuttoned Ray's trousers--looking for flesh, looking for the familiar feel and scent and movement of his partner and lover, something that would tell him things were all right--and Ray yanked hard on his fly, unbuttoning all the buttons in one motion.

They were the same height--well, no they weren't, but it was as near as made no difference when Ray leaned forward and pressed their naked erections together. Ray wrapped his hand around them, binding them together, and Fraser folded his hand over Ray's, and they scarcely needed any time at all. Fraser pressed his head back into the wall, letting his shoulders bounce against the plaster; Ray panted against his throat, quick hot breaths in time with the motion of their joined hands.

Then Ray made a small, strangled sound, and Fraser saw lights behind his eyes, which was reassuring, and it was over.

Fraser felt better.

"I'll get you a new shirt," Ray said, tugging at Fraser's hem. "And, uh, one for me too."

Fraser stripped off his shirt and kissed Ray's cheek before feeling for a chair and settling down for dinner.

* * *

"Tim, Timmy..."

"Mmm." He was gripping the bedrail as hard as he could--a lifeline, something to keep his body from sailing away on the waves of--oh, god, his _hands_\--nirvana--

"Tim!"

Michael's hands on his thighs and his mouth on his neck and his _dick_\--_inside_\--_inside Bayliss_\--pounding him, beating down the bad vibes with pure sex power.

He hadn't done this in _so_ long--why had he ever stopped?

He thrust back, slapping into Michael as Michael was crashing into him, and, oh, the heat and the sensation and the power--

* * *

Ray reached for another piece of bread to soak up the last of his soup. Fraser's hand closed around his wrist. "You need something?" Ray asked.

"No," Fraser said, but he didn't let go.

"Than can I have my hand back?"

Fraser didn't answer. His grip grew tighter. His head was bowed; he would have been staring into his soup if his eyes were working.

"Fraser." Ray tugged at his trapped hand and Fraser's mouth tightened.

"If I let you go, I won't be able to find you again," Fraser whispered--Jesus, he was crying.

Ray catapulted out of his chair and into Fraser's lap, stroking his hair and his cheeks and his shoulders, stroking anything he could touch. "You never need to find me, Fraser, not so long as I can come to you."

Fraser's chest shook with sobs he was too macho to let out. He pulled Ray in tight, so tight the shirt buttons hurt, but he did not care. He wrapped his arms around Fraser and let him know he was there.

"I was bedridden for a month when I was shot," Fraser whispered. "Ray, I can't--I can't bear to go through that again--"

"You're going to be fine. The doctor said so."

Fraser pressed his forehead into Ray's neck and held on, shaking. Ray stroked his back. "I know you think I don't know, Fraser, but I do. Every time I go to the eye doctor I'm thinking 'this is it, this is when they bench me.' I know that feeling. That feeling sucks."

"I'm afraid I may really be benched this time, Ray."

"We'll figure something out. Do something else. It doesn't matter, Fraser, I'll follow you anywhere."

"You'll follow me?"

"Yeah. Anywhere. Your big red butt is mine, Fraser." Ray bent down and kissed him on the lips. Fraser's mouth tasted of tears. "Let's go to bed."

Fraser rubbed his hands over Ray's back, looking better. "But the dishes..."

"We'll do 'em in the morning. Come on and wallow with me."

"Okay." And Fraser was really smiling now, so Ray stepped backwards off his lap and took his hands to lead him into the bedroom.

He watched Fraser as they undressed. Fraser's body looked the same as ever, pale and strong and smooth. He didn't even have any bruises. He hadn't bumped into anything in the apartment.

"The doctor said I shouldn't leave this on overnight," Fraser said, gesturing to his blindfold. Hesitant.

"Need a hand?"

"Ah...no." He was shy, Ray realized. But it wasn't like he hadn't seen Fraser hurt before.

Fraser untied the blindfold and peeled it away carefully. It was padded with gauze underneath. Fraser's eyelids were still swollen and red, but he didn't look half as bad as he had in the morning.

"You're healing up. Tomorrow you'll probably be bouncing around like a squirrel."

Fraser shook his head, smiling a little. Ray took his hand and led him to bed.

Ray ran his hands over Fraser's back as Fraser snuggled in closer. The skin of Fraser's face felt hot against Ray's neck.

He slid his hands under Fraser's boxers, warming up his strangely cool ass. Just holding, not intending anything. Familiar curves.

"Again?" Fraser murmured.

"Nah." Ray kissed Fraser's forehead and let his arms relax around Fraser's back.

"Benton," he whispered.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Love you."

Ray could feel the smile against his skin. "And I you."

* * *

Stella kissed Ray's cheek and shoved her coffee mug into his hands on her way out the door.

Ray sipped at her coffee and read the front section of the newspaper. No Iguana Family news today. The trials were almost all wrapped up.

Frannie leaned on his shoulder and looked at the paper. "Hey Ray."

"Morning, Frannie."

"I need your keys today."

"Over my dead body, Frannie."

"Come on! I only have half a day now, so I'm visiting Fraser after lunch."

"Yeah, Frannie, the presence of Fraser makes me feel a lot safer about my car!" Ray snapped the paper closed. "I will drive you there."

Frannie made a face. "_Fine._ Caesar." She swept out of the room.

* * *

Morning. Bayliss opened his eyes a few minutes before the alarm was set. His head throbbed and he ached all over.

Especially--well. He'd gotten laid and he'd gotten lucky. Michael was a honey, not a creep. Imagine that.

That's why he'd stopped going out. Too many creeps. He'd forgotten that, last night.

Michael was curled up against Bayliss' side. Bayliss had a good five or six inches on him, but they probably weighed the same; Michael was stockier and softer. Bayliss' weight had melted away on his sabbatical and never returned.

Michael's body reminded him of Chris Rawls...he missed Chris terribly. He thought about calling Chris, as he had a thousand times, but what would he say?

Chris was his first man. They'd had two months together before Bayliss flipped out and broke it off. Yes, it was his fault, but he didn't think Chris held it against him. Chris was a forgiving man.

After Chris, he hadn't slept with another man until after he'd been shot. He'd gone out a few times then, feeling his mortality. Wanting to get some experiences under his belt. So then there was Steve, who had cold hands but a wicked way with his tongue; Andrew, who'd asked to wear Bayliss' cuffs; Levon, who'd come _three_ times to Bayliss' one.

Then there was the man whose name he'd never gotten. He'd been very drunk and very down: it was after he'd been outed at the station. He'd become one of the people he saw all the time at work, someone with a sign on his chest asking for trouble.

He'd taken the guy home, like usual. The guy had stripped him down in the foyer, then Bayliss had led him back to the bedroom. That was when he lost control of the situation. He'd been fine with that until he suddenly realized the guy wasn't wearing a condom.

Then he wasn't fine with anything, but there wasn't a thing he could do.

Bayliss had given that night a lot of thought, and he decided that the worst part was that the guy had jacked him off. That is, his dick was into enough that the guy _could_ jack him off. He had liked to think of himself as a fairly harmonious individual, in touch and in tune with his body, but that proved to him without a shadow of a doubt that his mind and his body were in two different places.

Bayliss had lain there for a long while after the guy left, feeling like seven kinds of idiot, wondering what to do. Call Carlin in Sex Crimes? Sure, that would do wonders for his reputation, and besides, he'd said yes back in the bar. He'd only said no when it was too late to object. Stupid mistake, made by somebody who should have known better.

In the end, he'd taken a shower and called in sick to work. Then he went to the movie theater and sat through three new releases in a row. Then he came home and tore the sheets into shreds and threw them away; then he meditated, called himself an idiot again, and put it behind him.

But he hadn't gone back to the bar after that. He'd been celibate for close to two years. And he was just lucky that the HIV tests kept coming back negative...

Michael was impossibly sweet. He'd laughed every time Bayliss touched his ribs or his chest. Ticklish, he said, and Bayliss was a gentleman enough not to abuse that. He stroked Michael's face and Michael smiled in his sleep.

The alarm went off. Michael stirred in his arms. He opened his eyes, still smiling, and turned his face up for a kiss.

"Good morning," Michael said.

"Morning." Bayliss grinned, but his mood faded when he remembered the time. Welsh would skin him alive if he were late to work again with Kowalski acting so crazy. "I have to go--I have work."

Michael looked at the clock. "I--yeah. Crap, I'm running late already..." He sat up.

Bayliss sat up. "I want to see you again."

"Ditto," Michael said, smiling.

That smile. There was a lot of laughter in that smile, a lot of things that Bayliss was missing. "I want to see you again _today. _Are you free for lunch?"

Michael leaned over and kissed him. "Absolutely. 1:00?"

"I'll be there," Bayliss said, feeling drunken still. "I'll call you if work gets in the way, which it might. I don't have exactly regular hours."

Michael slid out of bed and started picking up his clothes. "What do you do, Tim?"

"I'm a cop."

Michael dropped a sock and stared at Bayliss. "You're kidding me."

Bayliss shook his head. "No. You didn't notice the bullet hole?" Bayliss pointed to the shiny round scar on his chest.

"I. Oh. Wow." Michael sat back on the bed and touched it, wide eyed. His hands were soft and gentle. "You got that at work?"

"I was chasing a criminal. He shot me. He was aiming for my partner."

"Does it--jeez, listen to me."

"Does it what?"

"Hurt?"

Bayliss placed his hand over Michael's. "No." He smiled.

"Lunch is on me, hero," Michael said, and kissed him again.

* * *

"Sandor! Do not tell me that you can't help me. Do not. That is _bullshit_ and I don't want to hear it. No, I said--hey! Yeah, and so's your dog!" Kowalski slammed his fist down on his desk and turned off the phone. "He hung up. What is this, Piss On Ray Day?"

Bayliss leaned back in his chair and handed Kowalski a report to sign. "Yeah, it sure is. We just didn't tell you because we wanted it to be a surprise."

"Hardy ha ha, funny man, and don't think I haven't noticed you humming to annoy me," Kowalski said, scowling.

"Humming?"

"Yeah, humming. And the dancing. And the saying hello to Frannie like Mr. Happy Guy, and...hey, did you get laid?" Ray whirled around in his chair and gave Bayliss the eye. Huey and Dewey perked up at Ray's words, gossip fiends that they were.

"Only one thing makes Detective Gloom and Doom into Happy Harry," Kowalski concluded.

"Well." Bayliss tried not to grin, but couldn't stop himself. "Yeah."

"Bayliss, you dog," Huey said, getting up from his desk.

"So tell us about her!" Dewey said, following Huey.

Bayliss shook his head. "I don't kiss and tell."

Dewey snorted. "Of course you do! You have plenty of times. Like that chick with the coffin, or did you not kiss her?"

"Okay, let me put it this way--I don't tell until after the kissing is done with," Bayliss said.

"Ahh," the other three chorused.

Welsh's door flew open and Welsh stomped out, thunderclouds gathering on his face. "WORK!" he bellowed.

Bayliss and Kowalski whipped back around in their chairs while Huey and Dewey pretended they had just been on their way to the filing cabinet.

Bayliss couldn't stop grinning. His whole body ached. He felt fantastic.

* * *

Bayliss pulled up to the bank just as Michael came out the front door. He honked quickly to let Michael spot his car.

"Hey!" Michael slid inside. "Decided where you want to eat?"

"Green Pastures. I'm vegetarian," Bayliss said as he pulled back into traffic.

Michael laughed. "I've never met a vegetarian cop before."

"I'm a Zen Buddhist, too." Bayliss grinned. "We're not all meatheads."

"A gay, vegetarian, Buddhist cop. Well, Mom always said I could pick 'em."

"Bisexual," Bayliss said, feeling the ridiculous need to correct.

"For real?"

"I love women." Bayliss stopped at a red light and looked over at Michael. "But sometimes it's easier to connect with men."

Michael slipped his hand into Bayliss', rubbing his fingers lightly. His eyes were deep and brown as rivers, which made Bayliss wonder what kind of secrets he held...

The car behind them honked. Oops. Green light.

* * *

They sat out on the patio under the shade. It was still hot as hell, but the air conditioning was on the blink and it wasn't much better indoors. At least out here they got the breeze.

It was a nice, relatively quiet street, downtown enough that Bayliss was comfortable making eyes at Michael but still out of the way.

Michael hadn't complained about eating vegetarian; he'd ordered the falafel with evident enjoyment. Bayliss was starting to think relationship. Hell, he was pondering rings. He could wear it on a chain under his shirt.

"Are you out at work?" Bayliss asked, playing with the remnants of his brown rice bowl.

Michael looked up and nodded. He licked a spot of dressing off his lip. "No point in not being. Three other people are, and it's not like the customers care. I guess you aren't, though?"

"No, but I was thinking about it. I transferred here last fall and I'm starting to settle in, you know? And at my last job--I was outed involuntarily."

"Ouch." Michael winced.

"I took a lot of heat from people outside the department, but inside it wasn't so bad. They were my friends and they kind of took it in stride. So I'm wondering now, if I come out myself instead of being outed, if it might not be better." Bayliss shrugged. "I don't know."

Michael rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "Much as I want to think the world is becoming a better place, it really isn't. I like you, Tim. I don't want to see you being a hero and getting shot or something."

"Too late for that." But Bayliss reached across the table and squeezed Michael's free hand.

"Okay, shot _again_..."

Bayliss saw something strange on the street. He squinted, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Tim?"

Opening doors at an intersection? That was--holy _shit_, that was a carjacking! Bayliss tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Michael. "Call 911! Tell them there's a possible carjacking at Eleventh and Morrow and Detective Bayliss is in pursuit of a suspect."

"What?"

Bayliss was already running. The men had taken too long getting the victim out of his car, and it looked like they were going to run on foot. "Chicago PD!" he bellowed, holding out his badge and his gun. "Hold it right there!"

The perpetrators took one look at him and ran. Bayliss glanced at the victim--he looked all right, just scared, no bleeding--and he raced after the two perps.

For half a block the two men stayed together, but then they split in opposite directions down an alley. Decision. Bayliss chased the slower one, the one who looked like he was struggling. Easier to catch and probably easier to interrogate. He darted looks down the opposite side of the alley, just in case the fast one was armed, but there was no sight of him.

Bayliss listened for footsteps. The alleys tended to dead-end in this part of town. He assumed that the slow man knew the area better than he did. He kept his gun pointed in front of him and his eyes, ears, and skin peeled.

The alley bent. Bayliss listened and heard the clatter of a can. He darted a look around the corner--there was someone. No gunfire. Bayliss took a chance and whipped around the corner, aiming his gun square at the forehead of the slow man. "Don't move. Chicago PD," Bayliss said.

"I'm not moving," the suspect said. Bayliss flipped him around and shoved him into the bricks to handcuff him.

Sirens approached, and he had the suspect. Good work for the space of five minutes.

* * *

Michael gave him back his cell phone. "That was amazing," he said. He stepped a little closer and whispered, "I want to shove you right up against the wall."

"Later," Bayliss said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." His back and knees twinged a little, but apart from that, he felt great.

"Bayliss!" There was Kowalski, looking especially frazzled. "What the hell? You walked into a carjacking?"

"Yeah. Right in the middle of my lunch date. I got him, though." Bayliss pushed his hair back from his forehead and nodded at the suspect in the back of a black-and-white.

"Lunch date?" Kowalski looked at Michael.

Bayliss looked at Michael. "Lunch date. Date, taking place at lunch." He looked at Kowalski, daring him to make a comment.

Kowalski looked right back. "Yeah, isn't that always the way?" He smiled, finally, and winked.

Bayliss sighed. Relief. "Michael, this is Detective Ray Kowalski, my partner. Ray, this is Michael Robinson, my date for lunch."

Kowalski nodded and they shook hands. "So Bayliss, you don't need any heads kicked? I heard the commotion of the radio, but I guess I missed all the fun."

"Nah. It was all over pretty fast. I lost the other guy--I can only run in one direction, right? They're out looking for him."

Kowalski nodded. "25th District, right?"

"Yeah."

"Damn. Could use a break." Kowalski grinned. "Need a ride back?"

"No, we took my car."

Kowalski nodded and turned to go. "Nice to meetcha, Michael."

"Likewise." Michael edged closer as Kowalski left. "Tim, did you just come out to your partner?"

"Yeah," Bayliss said. "But it's okay."

* * *

"How can you do that without seeing?" Francesca asked.

"My sense of touch is more than adequate," Fraser replied, keeping firm count of the number of stitches. "Your baby's blanket should be finished by this evening."

"Do they teach knitting in Mountie school or something? Because I've seen Turnbull doing that too." Fraser felt the couch springs depress as Francesca settled herself next to him.

"No, or at least, they didn't when I was in the Academy. It is, however, a very useful skill, so I am not surprised that Turnbull also has it. It's more startling that more people don't."

Francesca laughed. "You mean that?"

"No." Fraser was all too aware of the bounds of gendered behavior and was not at all surprised that people did not often broach them.

"Huh. You're a funny man, Fraser."

Fraser counted stitches. "I suppose so, yes."

"Ray's been going nuts trying to find the kid."

"I know. I tried to dissuade him, but I don't think I've been entirely successful."

"Like you _could._ Men." Francesca snorted through her nose. "I mean--not that you're not a man, Fraser, but you're _sensible._"

"I try to be. But you know, in Ray's irrationality lies also his passion, and to deprive him of that would be to deprive him of his spirit of living."

"Uh huh." Creak of springs as Francesca shifted. "So Fraser, how is that _passion_\--"

She broke off suddenly. "Ow. Ow."

"Francesca?" Fraser laid the knitting aside.

"Contraction." Her breath came quick for a moment, and then there was a sudden sharp smell. "Fraser!"

"I'm here!" He launched himself forward, landing painfully on his knees before her and feeling for her hand.

"Call--call an ambulance. I think my water just broke." She nearly laughed as she said it.

* * *

When Bayliss pulled into the station lot, Kowalski was waiting, leaning against his car. Bayliss pulled in next to him.

"We've gotta talk," Kowalski said when Bayliss emerged from his car.

"Okay."

Kowalski drummed his fingers against the hood. "Come on," he said, and got back into his car. Bayliss followed.

He was jealous of Kowalski's car. Or maybe--he was jealous of Kowalski for being able to drive a big, sexy, classic car. One of those. "Where are we going?" Bayliss asked.

"Nowhere. But we don't get AC if we're not moving." Kowalski's fingers danced over the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. "Bayliss."

"Yeah."

"Welsh put us together because we're the only two queers in the department. We both know that, that is a fact."

"Yeah." Bayliss rubbed his forehead. "I'm a detective and you're not subtle."

"No, I am not subtle, and I have made my peace with that. But you--" Kowalski glared at him, short and sharp and angry. "You're like a soaped-up window. I can't see inside."

"Really?" Chris had told him once that emotions swam across his face like fish.

"We've been partners since October and all I know about you is that you interrogate like a bastard and you like avocado sushi, and that is not okay." Kowalski glared at him again. "Partners, Bayliss! I don't care about being buddies, but we've _gotta_ be partners."

Bayliss spread his hands. "What do you want from me?"

Kowalski shook his head and kept driving. "I don't know. I don't know you well enough to know what I don't know and so I don't know what I want. This is fucked up, Bayliss."

From one kind of fucked up to another... Frank had known him too well. Bayliss covered his eyes, thinking of Frank. Remembering the rooftop, cold and dark, and Frank cursing. "Son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!"

"I don't tell people things any more," Bayliss said, feeling as if he were doing a striptease in the middle of the street. "I stopped talking about myself when I told Frank one thing too many and he started to hate me."

"Frank--"

"My last partner."

"Right, I knew that." Kowalski glanced at Bayliss. "He doesn't hate you."

"Yeah. He does." Frank's eyes, stone cold with judgment. There was a line in Frank's head like there was a line in Bayliss', and on the one side were the cops, and on the other side there were the criminals, and the cops could cross over but not cross back.

"Why do you think he hates you?"

"Because I told him too much."

"Dammit. Bayliss!" Kowalski sighed. "I've just got this feeling like there's something coming. I don't know, I don't know what it is, but I've gotta know that I can count on my partner."

"Maybe you can't," Bayliss murmured.

"Dammit!" Kowalski pulled into a grocery store parking lot. He parked cockeyed in an outlying spot. "Tell me. Fucking tell me."

"What?"

"Anything! Tell me what you told Frank. Just say it! None of this pussyfoot crap." Kowalski turned off the car and yanked the keys out of the ignition, turning to Bayliss with an expectant scowl.

Bayliss closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Was there any way around it?

Did he _want _to find a way around it?

"There was a man named Luke Ryland," Bayliss said finally. "A serial killer. He murdered two women and broadcast it over the Internet. We caught him, but it wasn't easy."

Kowalski nodded, of course. Every cop had stories that started like that.

"We caught him fair and square. I mean, we nailed him in the act! But then he got loose on a technicality, and he just walked away."

"What?" Kowalski sat bolt upright. "What technicality?"

"He was in jail for six months pre-trial due to a bunch of fuck-ups, and the judge let him walk. Just walk away. He waved to me. He said he was going to New Orleans, where the women were easy..." He remembered Ryland's handsome, clean-cut face. Big smile. Lots of teeth.

"That son of a bitch!"

"Just like that," Bayliss said. "All that work, and someone fucked up, and he was free. And he was telling me that he was going to kill again. So I hunted him down and I killed him first."

Kowalski drew a breath and held it, still as a statue. "You mean--symbolically or something."

"No," Bayliss said softly, "I hunted him down and I shot him in the head. I didn't leave any traces. I'm in Homicide. I'm good at that."

"Fuck." Kowalski turned away, bracing his hands against the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

"And then, eventually, I told Frank, and he hated me but did nothing. And then I told my lieutenant, and he was scared of me but did nothing. And then I got a transfer here." He'd told Gharty, who'd become Lieutenant after Giardello left, purely on the basis of his incompetence at anything else. Bayliss remembered Gharty's soft cow eyes wide with fear. He'd been confused, for a moment, about what Gharty was afraid of, but then he realized.

"I'm a murderer," Bayliss whispered; they weren't words he could speak aloud. "What do I do about that?"

"Fuck, Bayliss! Fuck YOU! Fuck you for telling me that!" Kowalski pounded the steering wheel. "What am _I_ supposed to do about that, huh? Huh?"

"I have no idea," Bayliss said. "If I knew, I would have done it already."

"You told your commander and you're not in jail? You told people--what am I supposed to do that you haven't done already? Why tell me this? I can't--" Kowalski shook his head. "I can't think straight." He put the keys back in the ignition and started the car.

Bayliss wondered where they were headed next, but--he didn't really care. It was out of his hands. Everything was out of his hands for a moment, and it felt_ good_.

Kowalski peeled out of the parking lot, driving with more purpose this time. He was silent, his lips pressed together, his eyes full of fire.

Bayliss watched Kowalski drive and the miles passed like they were nothing. "Here," Kowalski said. "Get out."

They were at a gym in one of the dodgier parts of town. Bayliss got out of the car obediently; Kowalski popped the trunk and got out a duffel bag.

"This is where they teach you how to think straight," Kowalski said.

* * *

Fraser supported Francesca's elbow as she paced the small room. "You've helped before, right? You've seen women have babies?" she said, sounding alarmed.

"Yes, several times, and in far worse conditions than this."

"And they were all okay? The women and the babies?"

"All of them."

"Oh my god." She stopped and flung her arms around him. Fraser embraced her awkwardly, bent over her belly. "I'm so scared," Francesca whispered. She grimaced as another contraction struck.

* * *

Kowalski's workout clothes were short and loose on Bayliss, but wearable. The boxing gloves and helmet felt far more alien.

Kowalski bounced in the ring before him with anger and hurt written all over his face. He'd handed the key to his future over to Kowalski, and Kowalski had taken him to a boxing ring.

Okay then. He'd box.

Kowalski punched him in the jaw. Bayliss recoiled and hit back.

* * *

"Ray!"

"Yeah, Benny?" Ray closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a headache.

"Francesca is in labor!"

"What!" Ray stood and grabbed his suit jacket. "Right now?"

"Yes, Ray. We called an ambulance and we're at the hospital."

"I'll be there in ten minutes." He dropped the phone into the cradle and sprinted out the door. Looked like things were moving again. "Any day" was today.

* * *

"Nnf." If Bayliss thought about it, the bench in the locker room was not really a place he wanted to rest his head, but he wasn't quite able to think right then. "Ow."

"Come on, Bayliss." Kowalski grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.

Bayliss hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt a _lot._ "Ow."

"We've got talking to do." Kowalski sat beside Bayliss on the bench, holding him upright with an arm around his shoulders.

"'kay." His brain felt like pudding. Easier to agree than to fight any more.

"Okay. I can't turn in a brother in blue. Not unless I know something that nobody else knows, which is not the case here." Kowalski shook him a little. "If your former commander knows, then it's on him to do something about it."

"'kay." Made perfect sense.

"Okay."

"Okay?" That easy?

Kowalski turned and shook him sharply, hard enough that his teeth clicked. "And if you ever fucking do anything like that again, I'll track you down and bring you in myself."

"Okay." Bayliss was alert now, his eyes focusing. Kowalski--Kowalski had eyes like a wolf. Like a hunter. He was shirtless, wearing only his jeans and boots and the knife in his belt, a primal creature.

Kowalski shook him again and his vision blurred with exhaustion. "We square?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're square. Put your shirt on." Kowalski tugged Bayliss' t-shirt over his head and Bayliss tried, valiantly, to lift his arms.

He could no longer feel the noose around his neck, although he still ran through the forest. The hunter let him go.

* * *

Fraser was standing in the middle of the waiting room, looking lost. His clothes were, amazingly, disheveled, but the blindfold was white and pressed as ever.

"Hey, Fraser." Ray touched his arm.

"Ray." Fraser smiled. "Francesca's labor is coming along well, the doctor said, but I fear she's banished me from her presence. Ray is with her, though, and her sister."

"That's good." Ray was too exhausted to be excited. Pounding the demons out of your partner really took it out of a guy. "Wanna go home?"

"Yes, I think so. Ray will call if we're required. You sound tired, Ray; what happened?"

"I..." Jesus. How was he supposed to explain this to Fraser when he wasn't entirely sure himself what had happened? "I went boxing with Bayliss."

"I see." And Fraser sounded puzzled, but didn't press further, so Ray just slung an arm around Fraser's shoulders and dragged their tired asses out to the car.

* * *

The first call had come at 7:30 in the morning, when Ray and Fraser were getting dressed. Vecchio said that Frannie was fine, and could they bring him some coffee? The hospital stuff offended his palate.

So they brought him coffee, and Fraser stayed for hand-holding duty, and Ray went to work, and the second call came at 3:00.

Ray hung up. "Guys. GUYS!"

The squad room looked up.

"It's a girl!"

The squad room burst into cheers. Ray stood and grabbed his keys off his desk.

"Going to the hospital?" Bayliss asked. He had a beauty of a shiner and a split lip, both of which he was blaming on an attempted mugging. He'd been shy of Ray all day.

"Yeah. Fraser said Vecchio's on the rampage and I've gotta run interference." Ray turned away, and then back. "Bayliss."

"Yeah?"

"Catch." Ray tossed him a carving. Bayliss caught it and examined it, looking surprised.

Two boxing gloves. Ray had been restless all day as well.

Bayliss smiled. "Thanks, Ray."

"See you later." Ray left.

* * *

Vecchio slung one arm around Ray's neck and the other around Fraser's and marched them both outside the room. "Guys."

"Vecchio. Ease up a little."

Vecchio eased up enough to grab both their collars. "Which one of you did it?"

Fraser wrinkled his forehead. "Ray?"

"Neither of us knocked her up," Ray said. "I swear it on my GTO."

"But you know. You _know._ This isn't funny any more!" Vecchio shook them both a little. "There is a little girl in there without a last name, and I want to know who the pig of a father is so I can go and punch him in the nose. And from where I sit you're the only two apart from my sister who know, so you had better _tell me_ before I punch you both in the nose instead!"

"Ray!" Fraser grabbed Vecchio's wrist. "For one thing, the baby's last name is Vecchio. For another thing, the father of the baby offered to marry Francesca, and she declined."

"And she told us not to tell you _exactly_ because she didn't want you punching him in the bean!" Ray shouted. "So cut it out! We're sworn to secrecy here!"

 Vecchio didn't let go. "Offered to marry her?"

"Yes," Fraser said.

"And she said no?"

"She said no," Ray said.

"I don't believe you." Vecchio's grip tightened. "Francesca's been looking to get hitched since she was sixteen years old."

"Vecchio! Wake up and smell the 21st century. Frannie's not sixteen any more." Ray wrenched his arm from Vecchio's grasp. "Anyway, she was married once, remember? It didn't work out. Maybe it's not what she wants. Maybe you should ask _her_ and not us. Fraser, sing 'Nobody's Girl' at him until he figures it out."

Fraser cleared his throat. "All right, Ray. 'She's a fallen angel, she's just flesh and bone...'"

"Enough!" Vecchio shoved away from Fraser and Fraser shut up. He paced up and down a bit, running his hands through the hair he didn't have. "Fine. Fine. You're not talking."

"No."

"Fine." Vecchio pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great. I'm an uncle again."

"Congratulations, Ray," Fraser said.

"Hey! Where's the new mommy!" Dewey shouted. He was walking down the corridor at the head of what looked like the entire department, Welsh included, all of them bearing flowers and chocolate and balloons.

* * *

"Oof." Frannie winced as she sat up. "Okay. Maybe I will need the wheelchair."

"Damn straight we're using the wheelchair," Ray growled. He braced Frannie with his good arm, helping her lever herself out of bed and into the chair, and then took the baby from her crib and settled her in Frannie's arms.

Frannie a mother. He never would have thought it. But she was doing okay so far.

Frannie bubbled at the baby as Ray wheeled her down the hall to the elevator. He hit the button for the fourth floor and the doors closed.

"What was going on with you and Fraser and Stanley yesterday?" Frannie asked.

Ray rested his hands on the wheelchair and leaned over Frannie. "I was trying to strong-arm that baby's daddy's name out of them."

"Did they cave? I'll kill them if they caved."

"They didn't cave," Ray said, scowling at Frannie.

"I'll tell you when I'm good and ready," Frannie said smugly.

The elevator dinged and opened. Ray wheeled Frannie down the hall to Room 405, where he knocked and cracked open the door. "Ma? Are you awake?"

"Yes, Ray..." she wheezed.

"We came up to show you the baby." Ray wheeled Frannie into the room, parking her by the bed.

Ma looked terrible, skinny and frail, but her eyes lit up when she saw Frannie and the baby. "Oh, bella! Let me see her." She held out her IV-laden arms.

Frannie held out the baby so that Ma could touch her cheek. "I'm naming her after Grandma," she said. "Fortunata. Fortunata Vecchio."

* * *

Ray slouched on the sofa, Fraser's head and shoulders resting on his stomach and Fraser's knees hung carelessly over the arm. He ran his hand over Fraser's short-cropped hair. "So what happened?"

"Well, we crashed." Fraser clasped Ray's other hand against his chest.

"Heh."

"I was injured in the impact and lost my vision. Ray was left to guide us both through the wilderness, and he acquitted himself admirably considering his inexperience and the conditions we were under. I fear that the head wound left me disoriented as well as blind, so I was of very little help."

"You made it, though." Fraser was going grey. Ray could see speckles of white among the thick, dark hair.

"We made it. Barely. The second day, I lost the use of my legs. Ray had to carry me."

"No way."

"Me and the packs. Dief helped as much as he was able, but there's only so much a wolf can carry on his back."

"He carried you? That scrawny little guy?"

Fraser turned his head. "Ray has a hidden strength, Ray, just as you do."

"I guess." He ran his thumb over the back of Fraser's hand, shifting a little under his weight. "But your legs were okay? And your eyes?"

"My injuries were primarily psychosomatic in that instance." Fraser raised one knee.

"Psychosomatic."

"Stemming from the mind rather than the body--"

"I know what it means. Why were you making yourself blind?"

"I don't know." Fraser sighed and shook his head against Ray's chest. "I've never been very good at psychoanalyzing myself."

"And you won't let anyone else shrink your head either."

"I don't know what the size of my head has to do with my mental state, Ray."

Ray laughed. He looked up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. "You know I like you better than lunch, right?"

"Yes Ray."

"We can stick together through anything."

"Yes Ray."

"No matter what."

"I know, Ray." Fraser rolled over and propped his chin on Ray's chest. The blindfold was luminous in the low light.

"We shouldn't have come back." Ray cupped his cheeks.

"We had obligations to friends. We still do."

"Francesca..." Ray sighed.

"Ray Vecchio."

"Turnbull."

"Welsh. You told me once--there's red ships and green ships but there's no ships like partnerships." Fraser smiled.

"I said that?"

"Under the influence of hypothermia, yes."

Must have been during the hunt for Muldoon, because he'd hadn't had any trouble like that during the adventure. But--"What the hell did I mean?"

Fraser laughed. "I have no idea. But it's a beautiful sentence, isn't it?"

"Sure, if you like gibberish."

"I love gibberish." Fraser was still laughing silently, his chest shaking against Ray's. "I don't regret a minute of it, Ray. I don't."

"Okay. As long as we're okay."

"We're okay."

Ray leaned up awkwardly and kissed Fraser. "Fraser..." There was something nagging at him, something that had never stopped nagging.

"Yes, Ray?"

How to put it... "Say I got this friend who did a crime and I don't want to bring him in..."

"Then you should encourage him to turn himself in." Fraser wrinkled his forehead, as if to say Ray, that is the most obvious thing ever.

"What if he's already turned himself in and nothing came of it?" Thinking of Sam Franklin, who he _did _turn in--but Sam hadn't told anyone else; Sam was going to let someone else get killed to cover up his crime. Bayliss turned himself in, and nothing happened.

"Then your duty is expunged." Fraser smiled.

"Okay." And...Ray felt better. Absolved of his responsibility. "Thanks, Fraser."

"Glad to be of help, Ray."

* * *

Bayliss was trying to type with boxing gloves on, which was annoying. He finally turned in his chair and handed the paperwork to his partner, Frank--no, Ray--no, Frank--no, Ray--he kept changing. "Quit that!" Bayliss snapped, but his partner ignored him.

"Bayliss!" Giardello was standing over his desk. "You're working."

Bayliss blinked. "Of course I'm working. What else would I be doing?"

"You tell me. What _have_ you been doing these past few days?"

"I..." He looked across the squad room, at the red line painted across the floor. The criminals stood behind it, staring at him. "I don't know."

"When you figure it out, let me know," Giardello said, and walked away.

Then Frank/Ray leaned over and nuzzled his cheek, and it was one of _those_ dreams. Bayliss jumped over the desk eagerly, still annoyed but not terribly hampered by the boxing gloves on his hands.

* * *

Slow music, slow enough that Benton "No Rhythm" Fraser could dance with Ray. Fraser pressed his cheek against Ray's. "Ray, when you said you would stick with me--"

"I meant it. We're not splitting up for anything."

"We could go north. We both have useful skills; we could live quite easily. You're extremely good with the dogs and my--my vision would be less critical. The doctor tells me that I'm developing cataracts, that I have been for some time--"

"Okay." North, with dogs and snow and Fraser and quiet. Away from the city; away from the job that dogged him and made his stomach ache, away from his partner that was tying his brain in knots, away from the ex-wife he loved that was married to another man. Away sounded pretty goddamn good.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Let's go." Ray nestled more comfortably into Fraser's body, swaying his hips.

"You're tired, Ray. I won't take that as a final answer."

Ray laughed. "Okay. Ask me again in the morning, and I'll still say heck yeah."

"You could leave your job that easily?"

"Fraser." Ray raised his head. "I've been on the force eleven years and I have not made friends apart from Welsh. I've pretty much blown whatever cred I had with what I did on the Botrelle case and with breaking the picket line for that bounty hunter lady. I don't regret it, but there's not a lot left for me, and I already sacrificed one marriage to the job. I'm not doing that again."

Fraser was quiet for a minute. "I didn't think of it that way."

"I figured."

"You consider this a marriage?"

"Yeah, Fraser."

Fraser smiled and buried his face in Ray's hair. "Shall I buy you a ring?"

"You can try." Ray bumped him with his hips and Fraser laughed. He held Fraser closer, leading him in a gentle dance. "Let's go, Fraser. Let's go north and eat raw fish and wrestle bears and dance in the snow."

"Ray, I can't ask that of you..."

Ray cupped Fraser's blind face in his hands. "What if I ask it of you?"

Fraser stilled. He placed one hand over Ray's heart and touched his forehead to Ray's. They were silent for a long moment.

"Then I would accept," Fraser said.

"Love you," Ray said. "Love you."

end.


End file.
